The home of the legendary Morgan was not that hard to find, all told.

Nicolas apparated outside the small home in rural Georgia and winced as he was suddenly hit with the hot, humid air of the southern state. He quickly scanned around himself, making sure no muggles had witnessed his arrival. He had no particular desire to deal with the American Obliviators, nor bother with the fuss of memory-charming someone himself.

Seeing no one, he drew his wand and cast a quick cooling charm on himself. He was wearing a muggle suit, and didn't want to weigh it down with sweat. The shield from the summer heat made him sigh in relief, and he tucked his wand back up his sleeve.

The house he stood in front of was as muggle as could be. Two stories tall with wooden shingles, the home was painted a cheerful red that had faded and bubbled in the sun. A picket fence, somewhat aged and neglected, surrounded the yard, and a few dog toys could be seen littering the front lawn. A blue muggle automobile sat beside it, coated in a light layer of dust from the dry dirt road that Nicolas stood upon. The narrow lane wound off into the trees and disappeared over a small hill. More trees, including many oaks for which Georgia state was known, surrounded the large back lawn and a single mighty southern live oak. In the shade of that beautiful tree sat a small table and a pair of lawn chairs.

The pastoral image made the ancient wizard smile. Geoffrey Goyle, Morgan's personal butler and master of her estate in British Columbia in her long absence, who had showed him the photograph needed to apparate to the location, had told him it would be so. Geoffrey had also provided Nicolas with Morgan's current nom de guerre, "Jasmine West"... which he found very interesting, considering the nature of his visit.

The small gate at the front path was open, so Nicolas walked through it up to the front screen door of the house. The inner storm door was open, and he could just see inside; some boots were placed at the foot of the carpeted stairs extending upward to the right of the entrance, and a woman's raincoat hung on a hook above them. Raising his hand, Nicolas rapped smartly on the wooden door.

"Jus' a minute!" called a feminine voice from inside. Nicolas heard a thump and the disgruntled whine of a dog, followed by some colourful cursing in a Southern accent. "Dammit, Albus, move!" After a moment a young woman came down the stairs, her vibrant green eyes widening slightly as she saw him through the screen door.

She broke into a smile as she opened the door. "Nick!" She hugged him, and he squeezed her back, a pleased smile gracing his face as well. "This is a surprise! C'mon in…" She ushered him through the door, taking a quick scan outside for anyone else.

He raised an eyebrow at her as she turned back to him. "Nobody outside. Come now, Morgan, give me some credit."

"I know, I know," she replied with a smile. Her voice had shifted down half an octave, and all trace of her Southern accent was gone. "Indulge an old woman her foibles."

He raised an eyebrow at that familiar claim, amused, as he looked her over. She was dressed in a simple red tank top and scandalous cut-off jean shorts, suitable for the Georgia summer heat. Her hair, long and dark, cascaded over her shoulders, and every inch of visible skin was smooth and lightly tanned. She looked like a girl barely out of her schooling years.

Sometimes it was difficult to remember that she had walked the earth nearly ten times longer than his own, unnaturally-long life span.

As if sensing his thoughts, she fisted her hands on her hips as she smirked at him. "Are you trying to make Peri jealous?"

"My wife? Jealous? Possibly. I don't know which one of us she'd be jealous of, mind." Morgan laughed. The night Nicolas' wife had met his mentor centuries before - somehow leaping to the conclusion that the beautiful young woman Nick had brought home was actually meant to be an extra guest in their marital bed before her red-faced husband corrected her - had settled into infamy. Particularly because Perenelle had not been as opposed to the idea as Nicolas might have assumed.

"Well, come on into the kitchen," Morgan gestured. "I'm afraid I don't have any tea… I'm a coffee drinker this time around, but it's too hot for that. How about some lemonade?"

"Lemonade sounds perfect," he agreed, following her into the house's small but friendly kitchen. The two of them had slipped into what the historians would call Middle French in their speech. It was the language of his childhood, and what he spoke at home with Perenelle. Morgan would switch languages sometimes without even realizing, but whether it was conscious or not he found it warming.

A small table sat by the wall, with two cheap metal chairs on either side. He sank into one as Morgan puttered around the kitchen, pulling a glass pitcher from the muggle refrigerator (or did the Americans call them iceboxes? Nicolas could never keep that straight) and pouring two tall tumblers full. She also filled a small plate with some biscuits… store-bought, unfortunately. He hid his disappointment... Morgan's homemade biscuits were exquisite. But that didn't stop him from helping himself to two as she put the glasses and plate between them.

The lemonade was delicious and cold, perfect for the early afternoon. Nicolas was regretting wearing his muggle suit - England was not nearly so sweltering. He shrugged off his blazer and folded it onto his lap. He thought about casting another cooling charm on himself, but resisted the notion… as a rule, when Morgan was living a muggle life she tried to do without magic as much as possible, and he respected that.

The click of claws on linoleum drew his attention, as a medium-sized dog entered the kitchen. He seemed to be some kind of collie mix, panting in the heat, investigating the kitchen and its new visitor.

"Well, hello there," Nicolas greeted, holding out a hand for the canine to sniff. After a moment he shifted his hand and pet the animal between the ears, causing the pooch to break out into a panting dog smile. Evidently deciding the grey-bearded human was an okay sort, he turned and sat on Nicolas' foot and leaned back so the scratching could continue.

"Watch out for him, he likes to trip people," Morgan warned, giving her pet the evil eye.

Nicolas looked down at the dark-haired collie, who was currently watching him intently with mournful eyes, expressing the kind of doggie wistfulness that only the gift of a biscuit could fix. "Did you really name him Albus?" The pooch's ears perked up, realizing he was being spoken of, and implicitly answering Nicolas' question.

"Well, he's always underfoot, so it seemed appropriate."

He snorted in laughter at the reference to his friend and student. Albus (Albus Dumbledore, that is, not Albus the Dog) had made several attempts to find the elusive Morgan, aka Morgana, in the nineteen-fifties and sixties. Dumbledore - for all his faults - was exceptionally brilliant and driven, and had actually come very close to finding her several times, much to the ancient witch's annoyance. The Hogwarts headmaster was too skilled to be fooled with a glamour, and because of the unique circumstances with Morgan's younger self, she couldn't risk the persistent wizard seeing her face. So she was forced to simply hide, which grated against her nature and was very disruptive to whatever life she was living at the time.

He looked around the home that was hers for the moment. It was small and simple, but had a pleasant charm to it. Lemon-colored drapes over the windows tinted the room yellow, and simple white-painted pine cabinets lined the walls. A short hallway stretched to the door from which he'd entered, and the living room branched off of that, carpeted with a dark green rug, thick curtains closed against the scorching midday sun. Fortunately the kitchen was on the shaded side of the house, and the rear door was open, allowing a pleasant breeze to pass through and ease the heat. Beyond he could see the pristine trees and grasses of the surrounding countryside, isolated as the house was in the rural area.

"I like your home," he said honestly. It had a country sweetness to it, reminding him of the cottages to be found in the innocent corners of muggle England. "May I ask what kind of life you're living now?"

Morgan smiled. "I'm a schoolteacher, as it happens. Fresh out of college. Can't really justify too much of a place on that salary. As it was I bought this place with an 'inheritance'." She made quotes in the air as she referenced the gift of money, from and to herself, carefully obscured from too much muggle scrutiny.

"And might I ask what you teach?"

"English. And, well… History." She had the good grace to blush. A five thousand year old woman teaching History was, frankly, cheating.

"Really, now," he said. "I didn't expect Americans cared about History unless it was their own."

She gave him a mock scowl for voicing the stereotype. "I'll have you know they learn a great deal in my classes."

"And I wonder why that might be," he replied, hiding a smile with a sip of his lemonade even as he pointedly ran his eyes along the toned length of her legs. Certainly if he'd had a teacher who looked like Morgan during his schooling years, his concentration would have been intense. She rolled her eyes at the joke, but was pleased with the compliment. "I have to say, this is quite a contrast from your last identity. Very… what's the muggle term? 'Rockwellian?'"

"You never did care much for Lilith, did you?" she replied with a smile, speaking of her previous existence as a university student in New York City a decade before. A student who was also, apparently, a 'punk rocker', a muggle term that as far as Nicolas could tell involved ragged clothing, excessive jewelry, and a dour attitude. But part of that might have been attributed to the death of her parents just beforehand, a tragedy she'd been forced to allow to happen for the second time. He suspected she'd been hurting badly then... and her chosen guise, angry at the world, had been more fact than fiction.

"I just couldn't get used to that hair," he said instead, causing her to laugh.

They chatted for a while longer, in the way that people who had been friends for centuries, but only saw each other once a decade, could. She asked about Perenelle, who was regretfully unable to come along on the trip; after the initial embarrassment had passed, the two women had become fast friends. They had been known to fuss over one another, and occasionally conspire (as far as he was concerned) against Nicolas. For his part he inquired after the state of her company, currently being managed by proxy, and her estate in British Columbia, which he'd only just passed through.

Finally, though, he had to bring up the purpose for his visit.

"Your younger self has received her Hogwarts letter," he began carefully. She barely reacted… a slight widening of her eyes. "Well, I should say at least her Hogwarts letter. I'm not sure what's going on inside that house, but there's been a steady stream of owls from the school. They're nearly swarming the place."

Her gaze was unfocused, turned inward, to that long stretch of time at the beginning of her life, memories laid down before she'd gained the surety of Occlumency to make them last. Nicolas was acutely aware that without Morgan's own tutelage he would have suffered the same fate. "I… don't remember," she said softly. "I do know my aunt is enormously hostile to magic. I would imagine she or her husband are destroying the letters."

"Inclined to battle the tide, are they?" he snorted. She did not comment. "Things are in motion. How do you feel about that?"

"How do I feel?" she repeated. She stood, taking the her empty glass and the empty plate to set them in the kitchen sink. She leaned on the counter, looking out upon the lawn. "My parents are dead. My godfather rots unjustly in Azkaban, and the only memory I've managed to hang onto is his death, which I'm forced to allow to happen again. A great deal is going to happen, none of it good, and I can't lift a finger to even ease the pain. I feel the same way I've felt for decades… powerless."

Any other wizard might have considered that statement ridiculous. In all the legends - and in reality too, as far as Nicolas could tell - Morgan was only second to Merlin himself in magical power. Will and skill, that was magic… and time had granted her plenty enough of both. Even the mightiest witch to walk the earth was a slave to the flow of time, however. He couldn't imagine what it'd be like to have an idea of what was coming, to have the power to stop it all… and yet be forced to watch as tragedy unfolded yet again.

"You won't be limited much longer," he pointed out.

"I'm aware of that. Unfortunately that's of little comfort right now."

"Are you going to contact your friends again?" he asked. She didn't respond for a long time, staring straight ahead. "Morgan-"

"I heard you Nick," she said. "I don't know."

"Why wouldn't you? You've waited millennia for this. I understand staying away for now, preserving the timeline. But once you've done what needs to be done," - he was careful not to say 'exiled yourself back into prehistoric times' - "why would you deny yourself that?"

"It's not the reunion. It's what comes afterward."

"Afterward?"

"Yes, afterward. Watching them grow old. Watching them die. Watching yet more friends take the journey that is denied to me."

"They'll do that anyway. Morgan, you've lived your entire life for this, for the moment when you could speak with them again…"

"Yes, my happily ever after!" she laughed bitterly. She turned to face him, holding onto the counter behind her. "The 'happily' will be but a moment, and then it'll be forever 'ever after'! I… I don't know if I can watch them do it. I can't. A fantasy does no harm, but the reality… I'll go mad again, Nicolas, I know it."

Centuries of familiarity let him hear the abject fear in her voice. In the long stretch of her life she rarely put down roots, but those she did were deep. Every time those roots were torn away, it nearly broke her. He knew what a boggart would show her… herself, alone, at the ending of the world.

"Albus has asked me for the Stone," he stated quietly.

An oppressive silence descended on the kitchen. Morgan's dog looked between the two, sensing his mistress' upset better than any human could. The poor animal whined softly.

"He's setting a trap for Voldemort." He didn't ask her if she remembered that; it didn't matter... it was an easy deduction.

"In all likelihood."

"Once he has it, he's going to try to convince you to destroy it."

"Again… likely."

"Tell him no." She turned, and her jaw was clenched. "Make a fake Stone, give him that."

It was phrased as an order, but he hadn't been her apprentice in a long time. "Morgan-"

"Albus is in love with death, you know that, Nick. He's never been able to forgive himself for his sister. You can't let him talk you into this!"

"Morgan!" Nicolas barked. "I'm fully capable of making my own decisions! Albus is charming and clever, but he's still a child and he can't make me do anything I don't want to do!"

"Then why would you want to?" she demanded, her hands clenching on the lip of the countertop, her knuckles white.

"Do you think you're the only person to bury family and friends?" he growled. There were a grand total of four people in the world who could speak to her the way he was; his wife was at home, and the other two were children who hadn't even learned of her identity yet, much less their privilege. "I may be a tenth your age, but that's still more than enough time to grasp loss. And unlike you, I had a tool at hand to prevent it... a gift of the Elixir, and I'd never have to lose a friend to time again! But like you, I've let what has to be done override what I want to do, and I've had to say goodbye to friend after friend because of it."

"Do you really want to compare numbers?" she asked angrily. "Because-"

"This isn't a game of who has suffered the worst!" he snapped. "Death may skip us, but he comes for everyone around us! And it gets so… tiring!"

"So what? Life goes on!" The ancient woman's voice was shaking, and it hurt him to hear. "Children everywhere will bury their parents, lovers depart from beloved, accidents happen! We don't just stop because-" She skidded to a stop, eyes wide. Finally hearing her own words, just as Nicolas had been voicing her own thoughts. He smiled at her sadly, his own anger gone as quickly as it had appeared. She drew a shaky breath. "Clever boy," she whispered.

"You don't have a monopoly on the 'wise old goat' role, you know," he remarked. He stood and walked over to her, squeezing her shoulders gently. "I understand what you're going through, Morgan. And Peri will listen when you need to talk, too. We won't very well abandon you."

"No, Nicolas, please." She laid her hands on his chest, and there were tears in her eyes. "If… if you and Peri get tired, and you want to move on… please, don't stay for me. I couldn't bear it if I thought you were trapped in this world because of me."

He rumbled in his chest. "Morgan, I said I'm capable of making my own decisions. When… when that time comes, I'll let you know."

"And now?" The desperation in the voice of so old and powerful a woman was heartbreaking.

"And now, neither one of us is bored. As you've said before, the muggles are definitely getting interesting. Peri is writing muggle science-fiction novels, did you know that? And she's ridiculously addicted to that 'Star Trek' show. And I'm having a grand time studying that genome research your company provides me."

He smiled at her. "There are deaths, Morgan, yes… but there are births, too. Go to your friends… not just for yourself, but for them. When your younger self goes back she'll leave a hole in their lives, one you can fill. They will live and die, but when they go to the next world, they'll bring the love you've given them along, and you'll know that."

She sighed, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "They'll barely recognize me. I've done too much… I don't even remember enough to pretend."

"If they're the friends you think they are, you won't have to."

"And if they're not?"

"Then you'll still have me and Peri." Still a bit teary, Morgan leaned forward and hugged him.

"What will you do about Albus?" she asked into his hair.

"Albus? Well, my old student may be a master strategist, but I don't know why in the world he thinks he has to use the real Stone when a copy will do. And when he asks me to destroy that, I'll oblige."

"It's a shame you have to trick him. He's a bit of an arse, but I do like him. Or… liked him. Whatever."

Nicolas stepped away. "My regret is that you two can't meet. I'd give up my fortune to see the great Albus Dumbledore starry-eyed with hero worship."

"Oh, shush."

She turned to wash the dishes, and he recognized she needed the moment to collect herself. Nicolas crouched to console poor Albus, who was worried for his mistress. Somewhere on the other side of the ocean, his namesake was doing the same, though for different reasons.

Just as she was finishing up, there was another knock at the door. Morgan raised her eyebrows at him, and he smiled. Hanging the dish towel over a metal rack, she went to answer it. Nicolas followed, curious as to what kind of visitors "Jasmine West" would receive.

In this case it was a teenage boy, just exiting the awkward phase of puberty, tall and gangly. His brown hair was cut short, almost to a military length, but he wore blue jeans and a t-shirt that proudly extolled "Nirvana"... which had nothing to do with Buddhism, Nicolas guessed, based on the accompanying picture. Judging from his tan and the worn state of his boots, the boy was the active sort, comfortable outside despite the heat.

"Justin!" Morgan greeted, obviously recognizing the lad.

"Uh… hi, Miss West!" he stammered. The poor young man, caught in the throes of teenage hormones, was obviously flustered by his teacher's summer-wear, but Nicolas had to give him credit for managing to keep his eyes up… most of the time.

"Is anythin' wrong?" she asked with concern. Her southern accent was back in force. "Why are you scorchin' yourself outside on a hot day like this?"

"Oh, no ma'am!" Justin replied, recovering his equilibrium. "I was wondering if you had any jobs you needed doin', like… maybe mowin' your lawn, or paintin'? I was just… well, my pop said that if I could earn the money to buy a car, he'd cover the insurance. So I'm basically just goin' around, looking for work. Ma'am."

Morgan grinned at him, and Nicolas was glad to see it was an honest smile. He was also amused by the poor lad, whose red-tinged skin had nothing at all to do with the sun.

"Well, Jasmine, I can see you have business, so I'll leave you to it," Nicolas said, doing his best to imitate an American accent. He knew better than to shoot for Morgan's southern twang, so settled for something more east coast. "Call me, I mean it."

To his surprise she hugged him again, even in front of the young man. "I will," she replied.

"Good enough. Have a good day. You too, Justin." Nicolas nodded respectfully at him, and the young man seemed to swell a bit at being acknowledged as an equal by the much older man in front of his crush.

He sidestepped them both and descended the few steps from the porch, waving amicably at them as he walked away and turned down the lane. He needed some distance… he hadn't quite mastered Morgan's talent at near-silent Apparition. He walked slowly; though he was particularly spry for a man of six-and-a-half centuries, there was no need to advertise it. Plus, he wanted to listen in a bit.

"Who was that?" he heard Justin ask.

"That? That was my uncle."

"Really? He was kinda short, wasn't he? That beard was neat, though."

"I'll tell 'im you said that," Morgan replied with amused reproach. "He's smart. An' good to talk to. Now, you mentioned mowin'? Come in, you need somethin' cold 'fore you do anything, and you can tell me how much it'll cost."

Justin's reply was lost as the pair retreated to the kitchen. With an amused grin, Nicolas disapparated with a subdued pop.